


We'll Meet Again

by impressionism



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 19:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impressionism/pseuds/impressionism





	1. Chapter 1

_Winter, late 1943_   
_London, England_

The Americans were starting to drive Arthur mad. For weeks now his London pub had been full of loud, obnoxious, carousing American servicemen on leave. They yelled, they drank, they fought occasionally, they drank, they flirted with the local girls, and they drank some more. Then they did it all over again. At the beginning, it was a vaguely interesting break in the same old tedious routine. By the end of the second night, Arthur had had enough.

To be honest, they were not all bad. They generally tried to be well behaved, they poured a lot of money into his pub, and after all, they were allies fighting a common enemy.

Truth be told, they weren't starting to drive Arthur mad at all.

He was.

"Hey, Art, buddy! Another bourbon here!"

Arthur looked up at the grinning blond holding his empty glass over the bar. Everything about the American irritated Arthur. The absurd bomber jacket he lived in. His perpetual grin. The way he never combed his bloody hair. And the arrogance... Arthur had not been the least bit surprised to learn he was a fighter pilot. Thought the whole bloody British Isle owed him their freedom and allegiance. Arthur gritted his teeth and snatched the glass.

"My name is Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy." Arthur reached for the bourbon. Ghastly American stuff. He barely went through a bottle a year before the war. Since the Americans turned up, he went through a carton a night.

"All right, sorry Art. Thur." Alfred grinned. He was obviously used to getting his way with that grin... but it bloody well wasn't going to work with Arthur. "Come have a drink with us."

Arthur clenched the bottle a little too strongly as he poured it into the glass. "Thank you, but no. I'm working."

Alfred just laughed at that. "I thought you owned the damn place. Let someone else pour the drinks for a while. Take a load off."

Another irritating thing. That ridiculous accent. Alfred seemed able to stretch every word into seven syllables. Arthur suppressed his irritation, pushed the glass across the bar, and attempted to be polite. He had a reputation as a gentleman to uphold, after all. "Thank you again, but I'm afraid I'm run off my feet with all you soldiers."

"Soldiers?" Alfred gasped loudly and put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Why Arthur, you wound me! Don't you know that I'm..."

"The youngest flight leader in all US Army Air Fighter divisions," Arthur finished for him monotonously. "This must be the - twelfth, I believe it is - time you have informed me of the fact."

Alfred just kept grinning as he took a swig of bourbon. "Well, don't you go forgetting it and calling me a soldier. That's an insult to a man, that is."

Arthur shook his head as he glared at the American. The arrogance was unfathomable. "I do apologise," he said sarcastically. "Will you ever forgive me."

Alfred leant fervently across the bar. "Don't be like that Arthur, of course I'll forgive you!" Arthur rolled his eyes, but Alfred did not seem to notice. "Hey, I know, make it up to me by having that drink with us, yeah?"

"I already told you, I'm working." Alfred's face fell just slightly. Arthur felt the tiniest stab of guilt, and could not stop himself adding, "Maybe another time." It was the sixth time this week he had given that answer, but Alfred still brightened at the words.

"Well all right, I'll see you later then! I look forward to having that drink with ya." Alfred winked, picked up his bourbon, and sauntered back to his table.

Arthur let out a deep breath. He turned and placed the bourbon back on the shelf, took a cloth from beneath the bar, and began wiping the bar top vigorously. Arthur had never dealt with something like this before. Customers asked him for drinks, he served them. None of them ever asked him to join them - hell, most of them barely spared a word for him. Yet this American pilot had bothered him every night for a week: coming to the bar for constant refills, chatting inanely, telling stupid jokes and bragging wildly. Arthur could not understand it.

Of course, a tiny, hopeful part of his brain held the smallest suspicion - but no. Arthur had spent too long suppressing that secret part of himself. The reason he had no close friends, the reason his brothers hated him; the reason he cut himself off from society, the reason even his country's armed services refused to accept him. He had learnt from his past mistakes, and knew better than to see his own secret wishes and desires where actually there was nothing. But then, what was it about this bloody Yank? Why did he keep asking Arthur to drink with him? Why did he keep looking over at Arthur behind the bar and waving? Why did he have to grin like that? And why the bloody hell did it affect Arthur so much when he did?

Arthur risked a glance over at the pilot's table. He always sat at the same one, by the second front window, with that other fellow who looked so much like him that Arthur wondered if they were brothers. Sure enough, Alfred was looking right at him. And grinning. Arthur quickly looked down. This was preposterous. He ran a hand over his heated forehead and felt it burning red. Throwing the cloth down, Arthur stormed over to the other side of the busy pub. Surely there must be some empty glasses to pick up.

An elderly regular nodded to him as he passed. "How are you dealing with all these bleedin' Yanks, Arthur?"

Arthur gave a short laugh then backed into a table to avoid a drunk soldier stumbling past. "It's keeping me on my feet, I can tell you that much."

The old man threw the soldier a dirty look. "Ah well, chin up, eh? Don't even know why we need them here, it's not as though our boys can't take on the Jerry's without them!"

"Rather," agreed Arthur, nodding acknowledgment to a group of loud Americans signaling for service.

"Ah well my lad, with the way things are shaping up on the continent it won't be long before they're out of your hair, I imagine."

"I can hardly wait." Why did Arthur not even know if he meant it? His eyes turned fleetingly towards Alfred's table before he quickly turned to serve the table of rowdy soldiers.

A few hours later, with the place thankfully somewhat quieter, Arthur finally had a chance to wipe down the vacant tables and collect empty glasses. He did have a few staff, but they only worked occasionally, and Arthur barely even knew their names. He preferred to do most of the work here himself. This was his pub, after all. The Emerald Lion. It wasn't much, but it was his entire life; it was everything he knew. The long bar that ran across the room, the old wooden tables and chairs that had never been replaced. The huge fireplace and its ornate mantelpiece. The ancient brick walls; the creaky narrow staircases that led down to the cold, dark cellar and up to his cosy, familiar living area. Arthur knew every part of this place like his own body. It had always been a family business, but Arthur was the last family member left here now. He felt it his duty to do as much as possible on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Bright sunlight crept under Arthur's eyelids and forced them open. He groaned loudly and threw the blanket over his head to block it out. Weeks of overcast days and it had to be sunny on this one. Arthur clasped his head in his hands and tried to stop it exploding. Why the hell did he feel so... Suddenly the memory of the night before hit him like a fist, his stomach turning violently. What had he done? What had he said? Oh God how had he ended up in bed without his shoes and... Arthur quickly patted himself down and thankfully found his clothing intact, although he had lost his tie, apron and shoes somewhere along the way. He buried his head in the pillow and tried not to scream. Well that was the last time he would ever see that bloody American... but that was a good thing, yes? Arthur only felt sick at the thought. But that might also be from the copious quantities of rum he'd consumed the night before. What on earth had he been thinking?

Well, to be completely honest, he knew what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking that Alfred was the most handsome man he'd ever laid eyes on. He'd been thinking that no one else in the world laughed like him, spoke like him, smiled like him. He'd been wondering what the hell a handsome, popular, confident young fighter pilot like Alfred was doing wasting his time talking to a boring old bartender like him. And he had drunk heavily to try and make sense of it, obviously scaring Alfred off in the process.

Trying to throw it all out of his mind, Arthur dragged himself out of bed to begin getting ready for the day ahead. It wasn't like he had never dealt with a hangover before. It was just the sudden memories that kept appearing unbidden... Alfred grinning and winking, Alfred leaning towards him, Alfred laughing, Alfred carrying him... "AGH!" Arthur tried to shake his head of the unwanted recollections. They just grew stronger, replaying over and over. Arthur decided there was nothing to be done but get dressed, go down to work, and forget he had ever met an American pilot named Alfred F. Jones.

The morning passed uneventfully. A few Americans came in for an early lunch with local girls on their arms, but the place was generally quiet. Arthur gave thanks for small mercies and spent his time avoiding a certain table by the window, while running a cold cloth over his forehead when no one was looking.

At noon, Arthur stood behind the bar, the cold cloth over his face, working hard on erasing the last week from his memory when it was all blown to hell by two words.

"Howdy, Arthur!"

Arthur jumped in surprise, the cloth falling to the floor. He looked up at Alfred, his face dripping, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest. All he could think to say was, "Good God man, do you have to yell so loud?"

Alfred looked amused. "I didn't yell..."

Arthur pressed on, slightly embarrassed. "Well I just have this flipping great headache..."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised," laughed Alfred. Arthur glared at him and Alfred cleared his throat. "So anyway," he continued, leaning on the bar, "I was thinking, that if this relationship is ever gonna go anywhere, we'd better start seeing each other in the daytime."

"Relationship?" Arthur's head still felt fuzzy... he must have heard that wrong.

"Show me the sights of London!" Alfred was all intensity and eagerness, dressed immaculately in his military uniform and cap along with the ever-present bomber jacket. Arthur tried very hard not to acknowledge the effect it had on him and tried instead to look annoyed.

"What? I'm working, I'm... I'm..."

Alfred grinned. "It's a beautiful sunny day out there, you're gonna spend it all in here with a cloth on your face?"

Arthur closed his eyes. Why could he not resist that bloody grin? "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. "Let me fetch my coat."

An hour later they had hardly seen anything of interest in Arthur's mind, but Alfred was fairly hopping in excitement. As they stood on the deck of a river boat crossing the Thames, Arthur was quickly growing embarrassed by all the stares the energetic American drew from fellow passengers.

"Wow, wow, oh my gosh! What do you call that thing again?"

Arthur peered sideways at Alfred pointing madly. "London Bridge."

"Wow!" Alfred's face lit up like a Christmas tree as he craned his neck looking upwards.

Arthur could not see why Alfred was impressed. "...It's just a bridge."

"It's LONDON bridge!" Alfred cried excitedly. "Like that song! You know... London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is..."

"Yes, yes all right, for heaven's sake..." Arthur tried to quiet Alfred as his raucous singing caught the humoured and surprised attention of several onlookers. "I know the blasted song."

"Are we hopping off over the river? Where are we going next? Can we see the bridge closer? I tell ya, all this walking is making me hungry." Alfred pulled something out of his pocket and starting unwrapping it. Arthur groaned when he realised it was a chocolate bar. He put his hand to his head, exasperated, and hoped the other passengers wouldn't notice.

"Alfred."

"Hmm?"

"You're eating chocolate."

"I know. Do you want some?" Alfred held out the bar.

"No... I..." Arthur didn't know quite how to tell Alfred that he was being rather rude considering everyone in Britain had been on sweets rations for years. He leant in and whispered. "We've been at war for quite a while here. Things like this are very hard to come by for us."

"Ohh," breathed Alfred, his eyes going wide. He glanced around guiltily. "I have more, should I offer everyone else some?"

Arthur almost laughed, but quickly stopped when he realised Alfred was serious. "Wait, Alfred, what are you..."

"Greetings folks!" Alfred turned and called out cheerfully to the passengers behind him. Arthur was horrified as everyone stared openly, obviously unsure what to make of this loud, strange American. "I'm Lieutenant Alfred Jones, all the way from the US of A, and I just wanted to say that I'm honoured to be here in your terrific city! Now I'm hoping some of you fine people can help me out with a small problem I have. You see, I'm shipping out soon to fight the Krauts in Italy, and I have all this candy I don't know what to do with!" Alfred pulled out a handful of chocolate bars, attracting the immediate attention of several small children who inched closer.

"Candy?" asked a little girl, tilting her head in confusion.

Alfred shot Arthur an inquiring look. "Sweets," Arthur managed to murmur in bewildered explanation.

Alfred turned back to the girl, laughed raucously, and explained, "That's what we Americans call sweets! Now I don't know what might happen if I took these sweets over to Italy with me..."

A little boy gasped and said, "The Krauts might steal 'em off you!"

Alfred gasped also, his expression drawn in mock horror. "They might, too! Well, we can't let that happen can we?"

The children shook their heads, moving slowly towards Alfred, their eyes fixed on the chocolate in his hands. Arthur's face was frozen in shock, as were some of the passengers'. Others, however, were smiling, a few of the women were giggling to each other, and the children were positively enthralled.

"Do you think you might be able to help an ally out and take 'em off my hands?" asked Alfred, smiling widely and offering the chocolate bars to the children. "It's really good... Hershey's, all the way from America!" Each of them took a bar, giggling happily, before running back to their parents. Alfred tipped his hat to his gawking audience. "Have a good day, folks!" He turned back around and winked at Arthur.

Arthur shook his head. "You're quite mad."

Alfred just laughed, then pulled another bar from his pocket. "I saved the last one for you."

Arthur could not stop his lips pulling into a smile. He tried in vain to furrow his brows and wipe the smile from his face. "Fine." He snatched the bar and jammed it in his own pocket.

"I like that," said Alfred, staring at Arthur.

"What?" asked Arthur huffily. How bloody irritating that he could not even control his facial expressions around the American.

"When you smile."

Arthur cast his eyes out at the river, the smile finally falling from his face and the back of his neck flushing with heat. They stood in silence, but he could feel Alfred's eyes on him for the rest of the short journey.

"What is that tall bridge over there?" asked Alfred, after they had arrived at the port across the river and walked a while along the bank. It was the finest day in months, the sun high and a gentle breeze blowing. It was hard to believe it was winter - Arthur could not ever remember a milder one in London.

"That there is Tower Bridge."

Alfred's face lit up again. "That one is terrific!"

"And that is the Tower of London," said Arthur, pointing over the street.

"Ooh, fantastic!" cried Alfred. They stopped and stared over at the imposing buildings. "What's in there?"

"German prisoners of war, currently. And traitors, and enemy spies." Arthur wracked his brains to think of what else they were keeping in the tower these days. "And, uh... ravens."

Alfred looked truly fascinated. "Ravens, really?" He looked around eagerly. "Is there any way we can get in there?"

"Well, there is one." Alfred raised his eyebrows inquisitively and Arthur smirked. "Betray Britain."

Alfred's face fell in disappointment. "Oh. I don't think I want to do that. Even to see the ravens."

"Oh, the ravens aren't the most interesting thing about the place," said Arthur.

"Really?" asked Alfred, intrigued. "What else is in there?"

"Ghosts," said Arthur wickedly. He gazed across at the tower as he spoke. "The Tower of London is the most haunted place in Britain, if not the entire world. There are dozens of ghosts in there... Lady Jane Grey, the Princes in the tower, Sir Walter Raleigh..." Arthur found ghost stories fascinating, and he'd always loved the ones about the tower. "On stormy nights, the ghost of Anne Boleyn is said to walk the tower, dressed all in white and carrying her severed head under her arm..." Arthur turned to find that Alfred was no longer standing beside him. He looked around, confused. "Alfred?" He walked a few paces before spotting Alfred further down the road, leaning against a tree and looking like he couldn't breathe. Arthur gasped and ran to him. "Blimey man, are you all right?" he asked, concerned by the pale green colour of Alfred's face.

Alfred looked up with wide eyes, clutching his chest, sweat beading his brow. "I... don't... like... ghosts!"

Arthur tried not to, but he burst into hysterical laughter. They quickly left, steered away insistently by Alfred, who kept glancing back fearfully as though the ghost of Anne Boleyn was on his heels. Arthur had been happy to walk along the river, but Alfred was desperate to get far away, as fast as possible, and headed straight for the nearest bus stop. Arthur couldn't stop snickering... the loud, brash, swaggering American was afraid of ghosts.

Alfred seemed to get over his terror rather quickly however, and whistled as the red double-decker pulled up at the bus stop. "Wow! It's one of those super tall ones!" he said as he swung himself up onto the platform. "Howdy, Miss." Alfred tipped his hat to the pretty young conductor who giggled and smiled at him. She barely even looked at Arthur as he purchased their tickets.

Once inside the dark abbey, Alfred quickly lost his cheerful grin. He moved along slowly, glancing around suspiciously, pressed quite close to Arthur's side. Arthur couldn't help finding it rather amusing.

"This place is creepy," Alfred whispered nervously as they walked slowly past the low stone coffins. "There aren't dead bodies in these things, are there?"

Arthur wasn't quite sure if he was serious. They were coffins, after all. "Oh, no," he said sarcastically. "They're stone all the way through."

"Oh." Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. "Well that's okay then."

Arthur glanced at Alfred quizzically. Surely he hadn't taken him seriously... "They're coffins, of course there are bodies..." He fell quiet as Alfred tensed up again. Apparently he had. "Ah, just forget it, Alfred."

Alfred was quite insistent they leave after that. "You Brits sure are big on the scary old buildings, ain't ya?" he asked as he hurried out into the street. Again, Arthur couldn't help laughing.

The pedestrian traffic thinned as they walked further down the street. Alfred started to slow, and eventually came to a stop in front of a roped off bomb site. Only one wall of the building was left standing, fixed at a dangerously skewed angle; the rest reduced to flattened rubble around it. Alfred whistled. "Whew, the Krauts sure did a number on that one."

Arthur nodded. "Quite. We still have quite a lot of sites left like this one. From the Blitz, you know." It suddenly struck Arthur how young Alfred looked, standing there in shock, gazing into the ruins.

"Innocent people shouldn't have to go through this," said Alfred, shaking his head as though he did not understand. "Women and old people and kids and stuff. That's just not right." He turned and looked at Arthur with wide, bright eyes. "That's why I'm doing this, you know." Alfred gestured over the wreckage. "I'm gonna stop this happening here, or back home, or anywhere else. Because we're the good guys, Arthur. I'm gonna go to Europe and put a stop to this, you'll see. I'm gonna save London!"

And Alfred sounded so young also, like he honestly believed he could take on the world. Arthur's heart swelled despite himself. Why did Alfred have to be so naive, so good, so stupid... "Come on, Alfred. There's a lovely park just up here I want to show you."

"Oh, great!" Alfred fell briskly into pace beside Arthur, snapping back into high spirits; but he didn't have quite the same spring in his step as before.

Alfred finally slowed down when they reached St James Park. The air started to chill as they wandered aimlessly past trees and gardens and couples taking an afternoon stroll. As they passed a park bench beneath a dense, leafy tree, Alfred lightly took Arthur's arm and led him over to it. Arthur felt the touch shoot through his nerves, and was surprised by the sudden nervousness it evoked. He sat down and felt something pull tight in his pocket. Confused, he reached in and pulled out the chocolate bar Alfred had handed him earlier. "Oh," he said in realisation. "Blimey, forgot about that."

"Try it!" said Alfred fervently. "American chocolate is the best chocolate in the whole world!"

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Is that so."

"It is! Try it! Don't you like chocolate?"

Arthur sighed wearily, ripped open the bar, and took a bite. He paused, surprised. It actually was very good. "It's passable, I suppose."

Alfred looked amusedly doubtful. "Passable."

"Mm-hm."

"That must be why you're scoffing the whole thing."

Bollocks. Arthur glared at Alfred. He hurried to finish his mouthful.

"So it's that hard to get candy here, huh?"

Arthur shrugged, discreetly wrapping the last of the chocolate in its wrapper. "Well, we're on rations. Everything is hard to get right now."

Alfred sighed and leant back, throwing his arms across the top of the bench. Arthur jumped nervously when Alfred's hand brushed his back. "You Brits have had it tough for a few years, haven't ya."

Arthur almost laughed incredulously. Alfred had no idea. "London is different now from a few years ago. So much has been destroyed. After the Blitz..." Arthur broke off and shuddered, still overwhelmed by awful memories. The dread of the coming nightfall, the evil of the air raid signal, those horrifying moments crouching in shelters and unable to sleep through the noise. The terror which quickly gave way to a numbing acceptance; never knowing what would be standing and who would be breathing in the morning. Arthur felt a brief brush of Alfred's hand against his.

"I remember seeing a film about it back home a few years ago," said Alfred quietly. "A docmenary."

Arthur tried not to laugh. It was a welcome distraction. "Documentary."

"Yeah, one of them." Alfred shook his head and stared up at the sky. "People all huddled in bomb shelters, and sirens going off, and dozens of Heinkel bombers flying over and flattening buildings to rubble - just like that one in the street before. It looked like you really had it rough."

"We did. We still do." So Alfred did know a little of the earlier war after all. His words brought back memories far too easily. "But we're strong. We made it through then, and we'll make it through now. We're British, after all."

Alfred smiled at that. "I'm starting to see quite a bit about you Brits."

"And does the American like what he sees?" asked Arthur.

"Yes," said Alfred softly, his eyes intense as he stared at Arthur. "He certainly does."

Arthur's neck burned despite the chilly wind. He dropped his gaze to his feet.

"Well, I'm impressed," said Alfred, his voice rising to its usual loud volume. "Your city is fantastic."

Arthur raised his eyes to Alfred's grinning face and smiled back. "I know."

The air was near freezing and the sun quickly descending in the sky by the time they strolled slowly passed the gates of Buckingham Palace. Alfred, as usual, looked excited and fascinated. Arthur could not understand how he was still so energetic.

"Oh, gosh! Oh, wow! That's where the king lives!"

Arthur nodded wearily. "Yes, Alfred."

"Can we see him?"

Arthur furrowed his brows, taken aback. "The king?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh yes, absolutely, I'll just trot right in and see if old George will have us for afternoon tea, shall I?"

Alfred looked gobsmacked. "You can do that?"

Arthur shook his head, partly amused, partly exasperated. Alfred obviously had a little trouble with the concept of sarcasm. "Why don't we go back to the Emerald Lion and have afternoon tea there, instead?"

"With the king?" asked Alfred eagerly. Arthur just looked at him. "Oh, you mean, obviously... right." Alfred coughed and Arthur hid a smirk behind his hand. "Well sure, Art, that sounds swell. Only, I don't actually have to drink tea, do I?"

"No. And Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Arthur."

"Of course it is."

But Arthur couldn't feel angry. Sure, he was a little tired, slightly exasperated, and quite confused as to why Alfred was still intent on spending time with him. But he was also happier than he could remember feeling in years. And he had just spent the best day of his life, in the greatest city in the world, with a slight hangover and the most interesting, wonderful, bloody frustrating American he had ever met.


	3. Chapter 3

"Right, so I grasp it here like this..."

"Put your hand here... down more."

"Like that?"

"That's it, now grip it a bit more firmly..."

"This feels incredibly awkward..."

"You have to open your hands up slightly... put your other one up here... thaaat's it. And open your legs a bit more."

"Agh! It's just a bloody bat, it shouldn't be this complicated," grumbled Arthur, trying for what felt like the eightieth time to stand in a batting stance that Alfred found acceptable. He felt like he was going to fall over. And it really did not help when Alfred stood behind him and placed his hands over Arthur's own, trying to correct his technique. Arthur's back burned where Alfred's chest pressed against it, he almost thought he felt Alfred's breath on his neck, and he hoped fervently that Alfred could not feel him shaking slightly.

When Alfred had walked into the Emerald Lion earlier, brandishing a bat and proclaiming he would explain the 'Great American Sport of Baseball,' Arthur had not imagined that he would be expected to actually play the blasted game. Now here he stood in the middle of the local cricket green, trying to remember the difference between a strike and a slide, and attempting to hit the bloody ball at least once. A pile of clothes sat nearby: Alfred's bomber jacket and cap; Arthur's coat and tie. The sky was just as high and warm as the day before, with no reminder of the earlier weeks of rain. It was like Alfred had brought the sun.

"Now bend your elbows a bit more... loosen your grip a little... there you are, I think you have the hang of it." Alfred stepped back and Arthur suppressed the feeling of disappointment. "Now, eye on the ball, all right?" Alfred picked up the ball, tossing it between his hands as he walked backwards away from Arthur, his handsome face cheerful and his bright hair glinting in the sunlight. "Twelfth time lucky!"

"Oh shut up," grumbled Arthur, taking a few practice swings.

"Here we go!"

Alfred threw the ball. Arthur swung. He missed. "BOLLOCKS!" Arthur threw the bat to the ground. "This game is utterly absurd! And stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry!" Alfred managed to choke out through hysterical laughter. "It's just, honestly, I've never seen anyone miss so many..."

"I am quite done with this baseball nonsense!" interrupted Arthur. He refused to admit to himself he was embarrassed. "Take your bloody bat, I'll show you a real bloody sport..."

After procuring a cricket bat and ball from the nearby club, Arthur sauntered back onto the pitch, eager to knock the cocky grin off Alfred's face. Alfred hadn't seemed to have gotten over his laughing fit, however. He placed his hands on his hips and watched Arthur amusedly. "All right then Arthur, what have you got to show me?"

Arthur scowled, despite his stuttering heart. That blasted arrogance drove him mad. "Let's just see how good you are at a real game, shall we?"

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Alfred to grasp the basics of cricket - apart from a few mistakes in terminology. "Okay, so let me get this straight," he said after Arthur gave him a quick rundown of the game. "The pitcher..."

"Bowler."

"Bowler stands here," said Alfred, jumping around at one end of the pitch next to Arthur. "And then the, uh, guy with the bat..." Alfred took off towards the other end of the pitch.

"Batsman," Arthur yelled after him.

"Batsman stands here..." Alfred called back. "Only there's normally two of 'em, and the other one stands over where you are, with the pitcher - ah, bowler."

"Yes, that's right."

"Okay. And the catcher..."

"Wicket keeper."

"Yeah him, he's here." Alfred tapped the ground with the cricket bat.

"Precisely. Jolly good. Are you ready?"

Alfred turned side-on and held his bat in position. "Lay it on me, buddy!"

Arthur smirked. "Let's see how bloody impressive you are now, Alfred Jones." Arthur lined up on the pitch, ran, and bowled the ball. Alfred hit it clear of the field.

"How many is that? Was that a six?" he called. "Do I have to run now?"

Arthur could have strangled him.

That night at the Emerald Lion, Alfred seemed quite proud of his new cricketing prowess, and had no hesitation in professing it to anyone who would listen. "So cricket's really not all that different from baseball in the end," he said to a group of Americans as they clustered around the bar. Arthur wiped the bar top down, silently fuming. "I mean there's a bat, there's a ball, you hit it and you run. Simple as that. There's even a catcher."

"Wicket keeper," muttered Arthur irritably.

"What did you think of baseball, Arthur?" asked Matthew, taking a sip of bourbon and ignoring Alfred. He was clearly used to his boasting.

"Well," said Arthur as several Americans turned and stared at him. "It's, uh..." It was frustrating, made no sense, and all he could remember of the strategy was Alfred's arms around him. "... jolly hard to hit the ball," he finished lamely.

Matthew nodded understandingly. "I never quite got the hang of it, either."

"That's because it's obviously an American game and you foreigners just can't handle it," said Alfred with a grin on his face that was entirely irritating. Arthur wondered how he had ever mistaken it for charming. The other Americans cheered appreciatively at Alfred's statement.

"May I remind you, that you are the foreigner here." Arthur spoke through gritted teeth.

"Exactly," said Matthew, discreetly kicking Alfred in the shin. "So if I were you, Lieutenant Jones, I'd show a little respect... or who knows." Matthew gave Arthur a tiny smile. "You might get kicked out of here and never invited back."

Arthur decided he liked Matthew.

"Aw, Arthur wouldn't do that to me, would you?" Alfred leant on the bar and grinned at Arthur. "How about I apologise, and we'll call it even?" He winked. Arthur clenched his fist around the washcloth. "And can you pour me another bourbon?"

One of these days Arthur was going to teach Alfred the meaning of the word 'please'. He turned to get the bottle of bourbon, only to find it empty. He sighed. It would be his third trip to the cellar that evening. Arthur dropped the washcloth and dusted off his hands.

"Or even a scotch would do," said Alfred, noticing the empty bourbon.

Arthur waved a hand. "I'll have to get some bourbon regardless." He paused. Scotch. That reminded him... he looked up at Alfred and smiled sweetly. "Actually, would you mind awfully if I asked you to help me bring some up from the cellar?" Remembering Alfred's terror at the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, Arthur devised a plan to knock arrogant Alfred down a few pegs.

"Well," said Alfred, leaning further over the bar and lowering his voice so only Arthur could hear him, "when you smile like that, how can I possibly say no?" And suddenly he was charming again. Arthur quickly scowled.

"Follow me." Arthur led Alfred to the back of the room and down the creaky, narrow stairs, descending into the cold and dark cellar. The brightness and noise of the pub faded immediately, leaving only a faintly dusty smell and a dim, shady light that threw shadows on the walls. Alfred slowed and his shoulders stiffened. Arthur smiled deviously to himself.

"Ah, this place of yours is a little creepy, Arthur," said Alfred, his head darting back and forth. "Just like all these old English buildings..."

"Do you think so?" asked Arthur innocently. "It dates back to the eighteenth century, you know. And it is built on ruins far older than that."

"Is... is that right?" asked Alfred nervously.

"Mm-hm. The bourbon is in this far corner, right over here." Arthur lead Alfred deep into the shadowy cellar. Alfred followed slowly. "Funny, these old pubs," Arthur continued as he ducked behind a shelf stocked with bottles and barrels. "There's always a story."

"Oh." Alfred's voice was small and trembling slightly.

"Would you like to hear ours?" There was indeed a story to the Emerald Lion. Arthur's brothers had told it to him as a child to scare him. It had never worked, however. Arthur loved ghost stories, and frankly he'd always wished there really was a spirit haunting the place when he was all alone in the cold, empty building.

"...sure," squeaked Alfred. He quickly cleared his throat and spoke in a voice a little deeper than usual. "I mean, uh, sure." Clearly Alfred did not feel the same way.

Arthur laughed quietly to himself. He passed two bottles of bourbon to Alfred, then leant down to fetch a couple more. "The legend goes, that in the early nineteenth century, this pub belonged to a young married couple who were very much in love. One day, the young chap was called away to fight the French in the Napoleonic wars. The young woman waited patiently. Every night, she left a glass of scotch on the mantelpiece, in the hope that he would come home to drink it - as was his custom in the evening." Arthur carefully and discreetly manoeuvred a barrel of bourbon so that it was sitting on the very edge of the shelf. He stood and faced Alfred, who stood stock still, gripping the bourbon bottles with shaking hands.

"But every morning she would wake to find the glass still full," Arthur continued. "Eventually, the news of the Battle of Waterloo reached London, and with it the knowledge that thousands of English soldiers had been killed. But she refused to give up hope. That night, she put out the glass of scotch, the same as any other evening. The next morning, though... it was empty."

Alfred gasped, his expression twisted in terror. Arthur hid a smirk and continued sinisterly.

"Again that evening she put out the glass, and again the next morning she found it empty. She repeated this ritual every night of her life until her death of old age." Arthur paused dramatically and walked slowly towards Alfred, lowering his voice to a soft, eerie tone.

"But the strange thing is, that in the hundred years since, occasionally a glass of scotch will be found sitting on the mantelpiece at the end of the evening. And it is well known that if this happens, you must leave it. For if you are to empty it before morning..." Arthur trailed off and left the sentence hanging, suspended, as he stared at Alfred's pale face with wide, unblinking eyes.

Alfred's face was frozen in a horrified glare. He swallowed heavily. "What?" he finally whispered. "What happens if you empty it?"

"I don't know," Arthur whispered back. "Because no one has ever lived to tell."

At that moment, the barrel of bourbon Arthur had loosened fell and crashed loudly to the floor. Alfred shrieked, dropped both bottles of bourbon, and fled up the cellar stairs. Arthur laughed triumphantly. "Now we're even, Alfred Jones." He cleaned up the mess, fetched a few new bottles of bourbon, and was quite pleased with himself until he ascended the stairs to find Alfred frantically trying to pull a glass from a customer's hands as they stood by the mantelpiece. It took Matthew and three Americans to drag Alfred away, all while he shouted that he was simply trying to save the unwitting customer from the deadly wrath of a vengeful ghost. Arthur had to offer the customer free beer for a month. Evidently, he couldn't win.

Over the next few nights, Alfred stayed late at the pub after all the soldiers had left. They talked about everything. About Alfred's farm back in the states. About Arthur's family and how his parents had died and his brothers had left him... how they hated him. About Alfred's plane, over and over, his sweet Lady Beth that he described so many times that Arthur felt he knew her himself. About Arthur's fears that he wouldn't manage, would never live up to his parent's expectations, and that in the end his brothers would be right and he would fail. And sometimes in those last dark hours, when everyone else had left and the sky was growing grey, Alfred would talk about his own fears. About the possibility of failure; that maybe he never would make a difference; the fact that very few pilots made it through unscathed. It was these rare talks that scared Arthur the most, and not knowing how it got there, his hand would slip into Alfred's, and he would wonder if he would ever cling to it in the future.

"I'm astonished you are allowed out of the base this late," said Arthur, reaching for his rum. It was nearly empty. He was pretty bloody careful with his drinks around Alfred now... the last thing he wanted to do was make a fool of himself again. It was late one evening, everyone had left, and once again Arthur was having a few drinks with Alfred after close. Arthur had come to cherish this time, though he would never let Alfred know it.

"Ah, it's good to be a pilot shipping out," said Alfred cheerfully. "We're dead anyway, so they let us do as we like in our last days." Alfred laughed loudly, but Arthur flinched and looked away. Alfred fell silent. "Arthur? Is something wrong?"

"I just don't think that's terribly funny, that's all."

Alfred paused before responding. "Sorry. Sometimes it's easier to joke about it, ya know?"

Arthur nodded. But the words sent a cold tremor down his spine. The idea that Alfred... no. It was too painful to think about. "Do you ever get... scared?" he asked finally, quietly.

Alfred scoffed. "No!" Arthur just stared at him over his drink. Alfred's smile faded, then he finally sighed and looked down. "I'm good, Arthur. I'm really good. And I'm not just boasting when I say that, I mean it. That's why I'm a flight leader."

"I know, Alfred. I believe you."

"But it doesn't matter how good you are. Because in the end, all it takes is a split second mistake, or the smallest navigational error, or a Kraut who is just a tiny bit better than you... and that's it." Alfred's eyes were dark, his expression uncertain, and he suddenly looked so young. It was the first time Arthur had seen the loud, cheerful, confident pilot like this. It was scary, and strange, but it was honest, and Arthur felt his chest swell almost painfully. Then Alfred reached out his hand and Arthur took it slowly, nervously. "I try not to think about it, but... I can't change the fact that most fighter pilots don't make it home."

Arthur did not respond. He just clung to Alfred's warm, firm hand. He didn't know what he was to Alfred. He wasn't sure what the American wanted. Whether it was company outside of the unit he saw every day, a sympathetic ear in these dark mornings, or something Arthur dared not admit to himself for the heart-crushing fear he would be wrong. But Arthur knew what Alfred was to him. He was a light in the darkness Arthur had lived for too long. He was air when before Arthur couldn't breathe. Alfred had worked his way into Arthur's heart just in time for Arthur to lose him.

"But Arthur." Alfred winked, and brought Arthur back to this moment and this conversation. "I ain't most fighter pilots." Arthur almost laughed. That was the Alfred he knew. "That radio of yours work?" asked Alfred, quickly changing the subject and nodding to the radio behind the bar counter.

Arthur shook his head of the fears that clouded it. "Yes. I don't often listen to it, however." The radio bothered Arthur these days. If it wasn't censored news updates, or that awful Lord Haw Haw's German propaganda, it was those terribly sad wartime songs like the ones Miss Lynn did so well.

"Hey now, why's that? You should play it more often. This place could use a little music!" Alfred sprung up and raced to the bar, switched on the radio, and attempted to tune it. "I'm sure we can get something decent on this thing..."

Arthur rolled his eyes, finished his rum, and went to help Alfred with the radio. "It's a bastard to tune," he said, taking over and scrolling through static until something definable as music came through the speakers.

Alfred gripped Arthur's arm and waved a hand excitedly. "There, there, stop! What's that?"

Arthur groaned as the orchestral tune swelled from the speakers. One of the reasons he didn't listen to the radio... "One of those depressing wartime songs."

"Oh, I know this one!" Alfred inexplicably tugged on his jacket and smoothed his hair. Then he turned to Arthur, bowed, and offered him his hand. "May I have this dance?"

Arthur heart leapt like air swelling in his chest. He suppressed it and scoffed. "Are you mad?"

Alfred shrugged, his eyes alight with joy. "I've been called that on occasion." He grinned. "Dance with me."

Arthur gave a sigh of surrender. He still couldn't resist that grin; so he gave in. He let Alfred take him in his arms and lead him out from behind the bar. Alfred immediately pulled Arthur against him, placed an arm around his waist, and took Arthur's hand in his. Arthur had to admit it... his heart was beating faster and his stomach fluttering madly. Well, that was annoying. Arthur rested his hand on Alfred's shoulder and looked into his handsome face. "This song is manipulative drivel."

"Oh hush! It's pretty." Then, to Arthur's horror, Alfred started singing as he spun Arthur inelegantly around the floor. "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when..."

"Stop it," said Arthur, embarrassed and bewildered and amused all at once. "You can't sing."

Alfred just sang louder, seemingly delighted by Arthur's irritation. "But I know we'll meet again some sunny day!"

"Stop it!" Arthur tried desperately not to laugh. It was not funny, it was ridiculous. It was ridiculous, no matter how dazzling Alfred looked as he sang. "You're terrible!"

"Keep smiling through..." Alfred's hair was as bright as the sun...

"Stop!"

"... just like you always do..." Alfred's eyes were a brilliant clear blue...

"NO!"

"til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!" Alfred was grinning...

Arthur finally gave up and burst into laughter. Alfred laughed with him as he continued swinging Arthur around, completely out of beat with the music, while the melody washed around them. At least while Alfred was laughing he couldn't sing.

"I'm sorry," said Alfred through his laughter.

"For the dreadful singing?" Arthur could hardly keep his feet in time with Alfred's, which were far too fast for the slow tune.

"No! I've forgotten the rest of the words..."

"That's quite all right, I assure you!"

"Oh wait... I remember... So will you please say hello, to the folks that I know, tell them I won't be long..."

"Oh no!" cried Arthur.

"They'll be happy to know, that as you saw me go, I was singing this song!"

Arthur shook his head. Alfred was hopeless. And sweet, and mad, and cheerful and naive and energetic and arrogant and oh how would anything ever return to normal after he was gone? As the music continued to swell, they slowly fell silent. Alfred stopped swinging Arthur in wild circles, instead slowing to a gentle swaying in time with the music. His grip on Arthur's waist tightened as slowly, softly, he brought their hands between their chests. Arthur could barely breathe from the conflicting emotions flowing through him. When the chorus started again, Alfred sang it softly.

"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when..."

Tears stung Arthur's eyes and he lowered his head. How silly to get emotional over such a sappy song. His back quivered where Alfred's hand moved over it gently; his hand trembled as Alfred gripped it almost painfully. Arthur hesitated, unsure, then he leant his head on Alfred's shoulder to hide his shining eyes. He felt Alfred's lips close by his ear, singing the last painfully hopeful words.

"...but I know we'll meet again, some sunny day."


End file.
